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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29783358">we play our fantasies out in real life ways</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainharkness/pseuds/captainharkness'>captainharkness</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, College Student!Abigail Hobbs, Domestic, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Murder Family, Other, Season/Series 01, Slice of Life, Trans Hannibal Lecter, Trans Will Graham, Unhealthy Relationships, t4t</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:34:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29783358</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainharkness/pseuds/captainharkness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Thank you for the apology, Agent Crawford,” Abigail says gently, “I can’t say that I enjoyed being the subject of a federal investigation,” <em>(she tries to make light of it but the waver of her voice fails her)</em>, “but I understand your suspicion. After all,” <em>(a small shrug; self-deprecation)</em>, “my father killed all those girls, and then fed them to me. It seems impossible that anyone could do such a thing, and all those around them be so oblivious.”</p><p>Her sense of humour is, in its entirety, Hannibal’s.<br/>-<br/>An insight into the carefully constructed relationship between Hannibal, Will and Abigail, three years into their family. Updates every two weeks.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham &amp; Abigail Hobbs &amp; Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. way down we go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, pre-fic admin: this is not technically a fic, per se, in that it won’t be a multichaptered, plot driven story. It’s a series of one shots, presented chronologically, within the same alternate universe. Basically, I wanted to write all the domestic scenes we could have gotten if Murder Family had come to fruition. Emphasis on domestic, without sacrificing the murder.</p><p>A note on triggers: I assume if you're here from the show you know what to expect, but to cover my bases, there will be graphic violence at some point. There is never any depictions of rape/noncon in my fics, or animal abuse. Unhealthy relationships? Yes. Physical abuse between Will/Hannibal and Abigail? Never. I'll tag chapters for specific warnings.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sins flock like birds, Will thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They gather on shores and fill the trees. They sit in lines across rooftops, gazing down at the world with their glossy eyes. They follow fishing barges and pluck their fill from the surface. Will has his own opinions on the cruelties of commercial mass fishing, so this is where the metaphor gets away from him a little. Or, perhaps, rings too true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, what is a sin done unto a sinner? Justice?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will is intimately familiar with the cold hands of madness. They have caressed the worst of him, stoked him to a roaring blaze and pet gently through his hair as his brain boiled inside his skull. Madness, he knows, is a destination reached walking down many roads. (The cold and the damp of a Virginia back road give him phantom pains in his feet and shins, the stag on one side, Winston following on the other. It’s been many months since Will has sleep walked through the country but the memory stings nonetheless.) And madness is surely the only destination at the end of this train of thought, where he contemplates the righteousness of evil and the justification of the unjustifiable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let it never be said that I find your mental faculties lacking, but even you cannot mince that through sheer force of will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will blinks, the shape of a knife coming into focus in his hands. It’s clean, the bulbs of garlic untouched. Hannibal stands to his side, looking vaguely amused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” he says, “In another world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Somewhere nice, I hope,” Hannibal replies, as if history hasn’t proven time and time again that that is highly unlikely, “But I’m afraid we need the garlic in this one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His sins are numerous, and dripping in blood. They are sickly sweet under his tongue, since he developed a taste for them. Hannibal presses a kiss to the side of his head as Will crushes and finely chops the garlic. He will put it on the shelf with the rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Hannibal would probably consider the quality of his knife work the greatest of sins at the table, despite the provenance of the meat, despite the miles of history between them, biblical in proportion like he considers anything to do with food. Will’s not yet mastered the absolute finesse with the blade that his partner has, but he quickly dismisses the thought; if he allows himself to dwell on </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>double meaning, he won’t come to until dessert.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s assured there’s very little else for him to do, so Will sets the table, and is surprised when food follows only a few minutes after.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was quick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Pad gra prow</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Hannibal says by way of answer, and sets the plate in front of him. It’s delicate in its presentation, a perfect dome of white rice beside an equally perfect dome of red peppers and meat, but Will recognises Thai comfort food when he sees it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a break from tradition for you, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal hums, taking a sip of water, “It’s never a bad idea to broaden one’s palette, or repertoire. Besides, I’ve been reliably informed the cuisine is likely to become a staple soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will pauses, “By whom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Abigail.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She took my advice then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal doesn’t glare at him, because he has a frightening grasp on his emotions, and because he recognises the cheap jab for what it is; little more than play fighting. But, it’s a close thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he says simply, “quite to heart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>“There’s all these cool little food shops around me but I don’t even know where to start,” she complains, “and the last time I asked Hannibal for ideas for food, he sent me these cookbooks for fancy French cuisine and…” She trails off, sighing, “I have four essays due in the next three weeks. I don’t have time to learn how to cook sous vide, whatever the hell that is.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll send you some Thai recipes. Grab some fresh herbs, chillis, ginger and a bottle of soy sauce. You can throw it all in one pan and put it with rice, done.” Thai food had gotten Will through his masters, lacking in the cash or energy to do much more than fry vegetables and put them on top of instant noodles. This, he leaves out. God alone knows what Hannibal would feed him if he set her down a road paved with packets of Magi.</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it really bother you so much that she came to me for advice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not. The important thing is that she feels comfortable coming to either of us, and that she is eating well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will laughs, before he can help himself, “It really grates you, doesn’t it? You’re so used to being the one who cooks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will,” Hannibal says plainly, and it’s not pleading, not really, but he thinks he might be able to tease that out of him if he tried hard enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, amused, and takes a bite. The rice is fluffy and the meat tender. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” he says between mouthfuls, “the only reason she told you is that she wants you to know it’s something new she’s learning. It’s because she cares what you think. Because, y’know, you’re the foodie one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal sighs, the sound laden with disdain, but Will is already distracted by his food, and so the conversation drops. Instead, he can feel the attentive eyes of his partner on him as he eats. He dismisses them. It has been years, and this is by far the least disconcerting of his lover’s eccentricities.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, so they eat in mostly companionable silence, standing side-by-side to wash and dry the dishes afterwards. Hannibal pours himself a glass of wine, and offers one to Will, who shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to go, I’ve got to feed the dogs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How definitively do you use the term </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘need’</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very definitively,” Will says, raising an eyebrow, “They need feeding and letting out, I can’t get anyone out there this late. Besides, I haven’t slept in my own bed in two days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is an easy solution to this ever recurring conundrum, you realise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will takes his jacket from the hook, even as Hannibal swirls his wine in the glass as if he’s not paying attention, as if he has no real investment into the conversation, though it is a blatant lie. It is testament to how little he guards himself around Will sometimes, because it is as transparent as the glass in his hand. Will is flattered, and a little amused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve been over this,” he reminds him, “We can’t just move in together. There’s no room for the dogs here, and no room for your harpsichord, art collection or even your kitchenware at mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have as much desire to move to Wolf Trap as you do to Baltimore, Will,” Hannibal says primly, “There are other properties, other cities.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will barely resists the urge to scoff, “What would that listing even look like? Must be pet friendly, have at least two acres of space, and a soundproof basement that will fit an eight-foot meat saw?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re both known hunters. It’s not an unreasonable request. Besides, the dogs would be more than content with one acre, I’m sure-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The two acres is for us,” Will pulls his jacket on with a laugh, but he’s not joking, “Hannibal. We’d kill each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at him fondly, leaving his wine on the side as he walks over. Will would love nothing more than to hang his jacket back up, and crawl back into bed with Hannibal beside him. He has no desire to drive the hour to Wolf Trap, or the hour to Quantico in the morning. He doesn’t even really have a desire, in this exact moment, for his own space. Will would be perfectly content to sit in the study with a book, or watch as Hannibal sketches. The knowledge sits at the back of his mind like a ticking clock; unobtrusive, but never unnoticed. Despite its ever-present disturbance, Wil knows that this is what is best for them. The separation, the space they have, keeps them both as sane as they can reasonably be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A metaphor wanders through the grey matter; something about predators in close quarters, territory disputes, sharp teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal smiles at him, tipping his head up with a finger under his chin, and kisses him gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve survived each other so far.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will grins, bites softly his partner’s jaw, his lower lip, “There’s always tomorrow, cher.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. time walks a world away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Abigail contemplates her universe.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have never been to Cincinnati; I am armed with Google street view and artistic licence. Findlay Market and Eden Park are both real places, as if the 30-ish minute walk between them down East Liberty Street, but I have uprooted a huge apartment complex and replaced it with terrace flats for the sake of Abigail living there. If there are any Cinci natives in my readership, I hope I do your wonderful city proud.</p><p>Chapter title from Need One by Martina Topley-Bird.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>What you're feedin me<br/>Don't make a mark of me<br/>I don't bruise so easily<br/>No scars inside</span>
  </em>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Findlay Market is a little under thirty minutes from her apartment, tucked into a corner of Uptown Cincinnati, a bustling two blocks of bakeries, local produce and artisanal goods. Her weekly walk down East Liberty is accompanied by the Cincinnati skyline, a discordant mash-up of brutalist office blocks and good ol’ fashioned church towers. There is so much here that Abigail doesn’t recognise from her old life, so much that she could see herself leaving behind her without a thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The buildings that flank her on her walk, though, in their strange shades of mint green and pastel pink, paint faded over red bricks, either by time or design, she would be tempted to keep. The world Abigail grew up in was that of sturdy wooden planks and the occasional brick church. The multicoloured rows of shops and apartments make a mockery of the chill in the air; they proclaim of warmer climates, of a beach nearby, rather than October on the edge of the Ohio River.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Buying her usual wares, she makes her well-worn route around the market - fresh vegetables from the middle-aged woman in a baseball cap, her smile wide and genuine as she greets Abigail by name. She has a routine, and she is known here, but not for anything more scandalous than having strong opinions on red grapes over green ones. There’s meat in the freezer, but she picks up some more sausages, and a pair of venison steaks that Alan, the butcher, tells her he shot and prepared himself. She has a soft spot for hunters, still, and he always appreciates the way she chats easily with him about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bag of pistachios next, a carton of eggs, and two poğaças from the Turkish stall to eat on the way back. She tucks most of it into her rucksack, puts the meat separately into a carrier bag, and continues her well practiced habit of thinking how easily she could discard the costume of her current identity and find a new city, with a new market to venture to on Sunday mornings, new routines, maybe a new name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For all that she enjoys Cincinnati’s patterned skyline, her loyalty is to the grey cloud that covers half her face as she walks the streets. A cloud which, with the help of her surrogate family, she could conjure just about anywhere outside of Minnesota. This city has a certain geographical appeal - far away enough from Baltimore that she might breathe her own air, close enough to Virginia that she has somewhere to shelter come the storm - but largely, it was chosen out of convenience. The University of Cincinnati accepted her without fuss, despite the somewhat late application, but her degree is the closest thing to roots she has set down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She could transfer her credits, or shed the bondage of formal education entirely. What she would do instead, she wasn’t sure. Maybe she’d just hide forever in Hannibal’s house, learn to kill and clean and cook under his guidance so that none of them ever went hungry again, learn the harpsichord and set the table for parties. Let him keep her the way Will keeps dogs, only more lethal. Maybe she could stay with Will instead, guard him in his sleep and pour coffee and home-cooked meals into him. To keep him vivid and healthy. It was the crux of everything between them; possession. They keep each other. Keep each other alive, keep each other close. Keep their blades sharp and tucked under the pillow, so that they might be wielded as necessary. They have all spilled blood in the name of each other, she thinks.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The poğaças are tangy and rich as she bites into them, still warm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truthfully, she chafes against their grip sometimes. They linger in the way new parents often do, as if waiting for the worst to happen. In some ways, it eased when she left for college. In others, it worsened. Her birth father had carved steak and blades from the bodies of other dark haired girls when she first sought to leave home, though, so perhaps Will’s continuous stream of texts and Hannibal’s return of her rent payments were not so dire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smell of damp soil and fresh undergrowth filters through the trees from Eden Park as she lets herself into her apartment, the security lock snapping into place and the chain pulled across.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The apartment is relatively small; one bedroom just big enough for a bed and dresser, the kitchen compact but entirely suitable, connected to a living room by an archway that Will had helped her to hang a sage green curtain across, tied to the side when she wanted to flood the place with sunlight from the tall windows. Hannibal’s face had been entirely devoid of judgement or emotion when she picked it, which she had long since learned meant he had largely unsavoury thoughts on the matter but was too polite to express them. Will had grinned knowingly, and Abigail had known it was because they shared a similar ethos of efficiency. She’d grown up hunting for meat with her father, growing vegetables and mending her clothes with her mother. The readiness of excess at Hannibal’s fingertips was a peculiar and sometimes unwelcome thing to them both, who valued self-sufficiency and rationale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, the size of the apartment is a concession from Hannibal, just as his purchasing it is from Abigail. Will’s sacrifice had always been the distance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made up for it by moving her in, taking a week off work to help her haul furniture up the two flights of stairs, and decorate the place as she wished. They’d painted the walls of her bedroom plum, the back wall of the living room navy and the rest magnolia. While Abigail hung her clothes and made the bed, he’d replaced the dented kitchen cupboard, tightened the pipes under the bathroom sink, replaced the batteries in the smoke alarms and installed the security lock on the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t like you so far away</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he’d admitted quietly on the fourth evening, a cup of tea in his hand. She’d glanced at him apologetically, but he’d shaken his head, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I know it’s what you want. I know it’s what’s best for you, too. I just…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abigail had smiled, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll miss you too.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She recalls a lecture on dealing with people with Stockholm Syndrome from her Forensic Psychology module. It was a term she’d happened across before, leafing through the pages of Hannibal’s many books in boredom, but reading case studies was different. It reminds her of Alana Bloom telling her about </span>
  <em>
    <span>trauma bonds</span>
  </em>
  <span>, warning her to guard her feelings about Will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(There’s a photo on the windowsill in her front room. Will and Hannibal cooking, side by side in Will’s kitchen. Their backs are turned, oblivious to the way she snapped it quickly and quietly as they bickered about something or other.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A girl in the lecture had raised her hand and asked “</span>
  <em>
    <span>can Stockholm Syndrome be compared with real love?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”, and her professor, a man far too enamoured with the sound of his own voice, had laughed indulgently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m afraid what is and what isn’t real love is a question for the philosophy department. Does Stockholm Syndrome trigger the same series of synapses in the brain as sharing a meal with your partner? Does it cause your brain to flood with oxytocin and vasopressin and serotonin the same way? Would a patient suffering from Stockholm Syndrome leave their captor or abuser, and willingly return like a loyal spouse? Does that make love real, or does it simply prove that our brains are susceptible to chemical imbalance even when we rely on them most?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abigail thinks his answer is a bit of a waste of time, as is the question. If love was something so easily defined as a series of chemical reactions, neatly defined interpersonal interactions and patterns of behaviour, there would be far fewer people on her Psychology course. The real answer is so steeped in nuance, so dependent on circumstance, even her narcissistic professor would run out of words before he could accurately and wholly explain what real love is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>“Slow braised beef, cooked in a paprika, capsicum and cumin, and served with a herb and tomato sauce,” Hannibal says as he places your plate in front of you. It smells incredible, spicy and a little sweet. Will follows with a plate of fresh baked bread, and her mouth waters.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s a chilli,” Will adds, no shortage of amusement in his tone. Hannibal turns a scathing look upon him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The meat slow cooked for two hours. I had to cook the flatbreads from scratch in your kitchen, which has no less than six bottle openers and not one mixing bowl,” he says curtly. It is her hunter’s reflexes and good fortune alone that prevents Abigail from snorting directly into her drink.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s an extremely bourgeoisie version of a chilli, but that’s beef in a spicy tomato sauce,” Will shrugs, even as Hannibal looks to be contemplating slow roasting him in the oven, “Add some kidney beans, that’s a good ol’ fashion chilli.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I might have added some,” Hannibal smiles blandly, “but the only tin of kidney beans in your cupboard expired last June.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will glances up at Abigail from where his head is ducked so low, it looks like he could be saying grace, if it were not for the way he was shaking with silent laughter. Abigail has, to her credit, been doing extremely well not throwing gas on the proverbial fire, but the second she catches his eye, it’s a lost cause. She bursts out laughing. Will, with no more incentive to keep quiet, giggles.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hannibal stares between them, increasingly aware that he is fighting a losing battle, and seemingly forgetting why exactly he was so desperate to win. It’s a rare moment of humanity from him; affection and wit he gives out freely, at least to the two of them. But to loosen his grip on control, to concede a genuine, human reaction… it feels momentous. He looks at Will with so much adoration she feels it tug at her gut with love, and when he turns his gaze to her, she finds herself inexplicably close to tears. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She takes a bite of the beef, feels it dissolve in her mouth. It’s perfect, but it’s definitely a chilli. It’s definitely not beef.</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost entirely coincidence that she needs her notes from the lecture for an upcoming essay. Scanning them, she finds her mind far from their practical application, instead dwelling on the question she was too scared to ask, even in the privacy of her own mind, walking around Findlay Market a week ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sun streams in through the kitchen window, but it is a fallacy. The rain is cold and the wind cut her in half when she threw her rubbish out, and the rays that fall upon her hands as they hover over her keyboard indecisively feel like a lie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, she pulls out her phone, and presses speed dial two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, you. Everything okay?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will’s voice is calm, as if she calls every Saturday morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey. Yeah, I’m fine, I just-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s silence on the other end of the line. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, how easily Will can crawl into her head, even from 500 miles away. She’s grateful, though, as he waits patiently for her to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I left, would you let me go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another silence follows, but it weighs heavily on the line. She watches the pale grey clouds creep across the sky until they cover the sun, and the warmth that had filled her kitchen was sapped from the space. The air lost its yellow tones, the whole room drenched in shades of grey. She shivers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>If I knew you were safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he says eventually, voice soft and even, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>and I knew that you knew you could come home anytime, then yes.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words tumbled around in her head. What had she expected? A solid and unwavering ‘yes’? She knew things about Will, and Hannibal, that could put them both behind bars for life, if not worse. But, then, how unreasonable was his answer?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>“Sorry, I have to take this,” Allison says, rolling her eyes. They share three of the same classes, and Abigail likes her because she isn’t nosey. She doesn’t really care where Abigail came from, has no interest in digging out some sordid backstory in everyone she meets. Allison is pragmatic in the extreme; she values hard work, cheap coffee, and late nineties R&amp;B music, and not much else. Abigail thinks they might be best friends.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sorry,” she repeats after a few minutes, shoving her phone in her bag, “I swear, I go three days without phoning home and my dad is convinced I’ve been abducted. Are your parents like that?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Abigail can’t help but laugh, “You have no idea.”)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The memory surfaces without her permission - just another Sunday, grabbing a coffee and a danish from the stall before heading back to the library together. An inconsequential exchange that was forgotten as soon as it arrived. Was Will any different from Allison’s dad, really?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Planning a trip north, Abigail?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he asks lightly, drawing her back to the conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” she replies, “No. Not really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hums, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Better to go south, anyway, if you’re aiming for a border.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? More time to catch up with me between Ohio and Mexico?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Better weather.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Easier, too</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he says after a while, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>In Canada, you can only go back down, unless you’re stowing away on a ship across the Atlantic. Quicker and cheaper to get a bus down to Yucatan, pay a local to take you to Cuba, or Panama. Hit South America and I doubt even we’d find you.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abigail sucks in a shaky breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Pay cash, stick to small stores, stay away from tourist heavy areas,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he continues casually, but he enunciates clearly, like he needs her to listen to every word carefully, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re bright. You’d pick up the language soon enough. You’d probably do well. Hypothetically.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hypothetically,” she repeats, “Of course, now you know where you’d have to look for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Will says, voice low and calm, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You just told me you’d go north, so that’s where I’d tell everyone to look.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is gripped by the bizarre urge to cry. Nodding even though she knows that he cannot see it, Abigail leans against her kitchen wall, sees, in her mind’s eye, herself on a boat in the Gulf. On a street in Colombia. Walking down a Brazilian beach. It feels asynchronous to the life she has built, to any life that she has ever had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to,” she says, because it feels like she has to remind him, and herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean it,” she presses, “I just, I dunno. Needed to ask. You’d really just let me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs, and she can almost imagine the way he leans back in his chair, rolling his neck, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Would it break my heart? Of course it would, Abigail. But, if I looked at you one day and realised you were only here because you thought you had to be, or that you had no choice? That would be worse. I don’t want that for you. That’s not the person I want you to be, either of us.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>let me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>If I told him to</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Will replies without hesitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t help but laugh, “He wouldn’t be happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Will chuckles, ”</span>
  <em>
    <span>but it’d do him some good to be told </span>
  </em>
  <span>no </span>
  <em>
    <span>now and again.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” His amusement tails off into something more solemn, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I know Hannibal sees people as opportunities, but you know that doesn’t apply to you, right?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It did. Before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>In the beginning, yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Will concedes, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>but now? He’d hang stars and raze cities if he thought it would make you happy. Both of us would. And if what makes you happy is living under a new name in Santiago, or Toronto, then that’s what you can have too</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tries to imagine it - like so much where they are involved, it feels biblical and fantastical, the images coming to mind surreal but wholly tangible. Hannibal takes her hand, smiles indulgently, and walks her down a smouldering street while mothers and children cower from them both. Will’s stag walks beside them, silent save for the dripping of blood from the black velvet antlers. She burrows a hand in the warm black fur on its shoulder, and feels the steady hammering of his pulse on her palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>“Not quite,” he smiles, shaking his head when she describes the stag he’d told her about, the way she sees it. Will sips from a glass of whiskey - it’s just the two of them, Wolf Trap quiet in the way that country is, which is to say, full of noise but no disruption. Sadie nuzzles her wet nose against Abigail’s thigh. “Definitely no wings.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a night for honesty, raw and unbidden and purposeful. They’re a family now and it matters. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She snorts, takes a drink from her own whiskey. It tastes awful, but there’s something cathartic about feeling it burn as it travels down her throat.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I think I prefer my version,” she grins, thinking about the giant animal, closer in size to a moose than a deer. It has black fur all over and Will’s blue eyes, and a pair of raven’s wings on it’s back that quiver in irritation or frustration, and arch over all of their heads when it rains. Like the man himself, she tries to imagine what it would feel like to be scared by the intensity of its focus, the capacity for violence, but she can’t - Abigail has only ever known comfort from it.</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not unusual for Will to take the form of the stag in her mind, but Hannibal always looks like some unnatural version of himself, statue-still when his focus isn’t on her. Hannibal, but not. Something tainted shining through at the edges. It stopped scaring her long ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You gonna tell me what this is about?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One of my lectures had a go at defining love the other day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a noise of disgust, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>How bad was it?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Late night TV psychic levels of hand-waving and rhetorical questions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Pretentious bastard.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what I said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Atta girl</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he laughs, and she’s not ashamed of the warmth that it spreads through her, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>No one defines what love is to you, but you. I don’t care how many doctorates they’ve got</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels so good to hear him say it. It matters more than she wants to admit to have someone put into words that she has control over the boundaries of her own life. Academically, she knows it. But, the life that she lives is occasionally isolating by nature, and it’s hard to find a sounding board for these kinds of issues. But, it’s a fair price to pay for their love. The love of untamed people, suited perfectly to loving one in kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doctor Howard Green’s office is exactly how she has imagined - a bookshelf that seems largely populated by his own publications, academic certificates hanging proudly behind his desk. There’s a photo of the man himself and a younger woman on the filing cabinet - she’s pretty, and looks unwaveringly patient even in a static image. Abigail pities her, a stranger in film.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Green is talking at length about Abigail’s paper. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re not in trouble</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he assures her when she walks in, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I just like to make a habit of checking in, especially with the quieter students</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She doubts his motives strongly, and wonders which of her parental figures he’s most interested in. It could be any of them, and it wouldn’t be the first time one of the psychology department staff recognized her; as the child of Garrett Jacob-Hobbs, infamous cannibal, of Hannibal Lecter, infamous psychiatrist, or Will Graham, infamous neurotic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All three options are distasteful. She despises the man even more than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few pointed questions about where her interest in psychology began later, and she would be willing to bet on it being Will. A shame, really. She’d been hoping for Hannibal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On a whim, she swipes one of his business cards from his desk. Carefully, to ensure he doesn’t spot her. She can’t imagine anything worse than him believing she has any interest in continuing this conversation. She’ll put it in a box on her dresser, with a few rings and momentos, the detritus of life. Just in case. Maybe, one day, she’ll bring him around for dinner.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. figure this one out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This is the nature of him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning for descriptions of a crime scene. We did it guys! We found a crumb of plot!</p><p>Chapter title from Decode - Paramore, because my friend was listening to it while I was writing this and I thought, yeah. Let's do that.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>How did we get here?<br/>When I used to know you so well?<br/>Yeah, how did we get here?<br/>Well, I think I know</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>“You’re bringing me coffee now?” Beverly crones, voice infuriatingly bright and chipper despite the criminally early hour, “Whatever will people say, Will? That I’m the spanner in the infallible Graham-Lecter household? That I’ve stolen the heart of a loyal man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And which man would that be?” Will replies, taking a mouthful of his own coffee, “Hannibal made it, I just delivered.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beverly’s eyes narrow, “Why is Hannibal making me coffee? Does he need me to run something through the lab under the table?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ, you bribe on the cheap. No, technically he made it for Jack, but Jack called me at four in the morning and I’m in a mood with him, so it’s yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Way to make a girl feel special.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really what I’m known for, Bev,” he says as he follows the line of uniforms to the police tape. Beverly cackles after him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The coffee is hot, a singular upside to a crime scene so close to home. He wonders exactly how much blood would have to flow through the finer streets of Baltimore before the old colonial veneer of propriety cracks and peels, and it dons the same reputation as Detroit or St. Louis. One of the uniforms makes an off-hand comment as he leads him through the house about how nice the neighbourhood is, how surprised the well-to-do neighbours were at the sight of the crime scene tape, and Will rolls his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will, through here,” Jack calls, “Thanks for getting here so quickly. Hopefully, you won’t need to be here long. House belongs to Carl Sandover, he’s an investment advisor. Local PD called us in, apparently there’s a spate of violent home invasions in the area.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re working robbery now, Jack?” Will asks wryly. If anything, he should be up and out within the hour; he doesn’t know if that makes the early wake-up call better or worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Usually, no,” Jack says in his best ‘behave, Will’ voice, “but they think there’s something different about this one. The suspect has been escalating violence with every robbery, but apparently, this one is a leap too far.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk through the house, which feels more like a catalogue than a home, impeccable design completely devoid of personality or taste. Even the family photos look Photoshopped, of a perfect family in a perfect home devoid of any sign of family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They make their way into the lounge, where the first sign of an inhabitant is the corpse on the couch. All the drawers are pulled open, glass on the floor, the debris of human existence strewn across the room. The victim’s head is tipped back against the sofa, arms cuffed in his lap, shirt and pants drenched in blood from the long slits up his forearms. Will does a double take; a pair of eyeballs are staring at them in the doorway from the coffee table, grey and glassy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are the eyes his?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“DNA will confirm,” Jack nods, “but he’s missing his, so-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Odds not in his favour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack sighs, “No, seems not. Right, everyone out, take fifteen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple of crime scene techs and the uniform in the corner file out awkwardly, stepping around the mess, and Will shuts his eyes and lets the pendulum swing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, it feels like trying to shove a square peg into a round hole, the pieces of the puzzle overlapping and wedging in together. The victim’s face is blurred, and Will finds himself unable to pick out his features as he watches him bleed out on the sofa.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He is a prop, he is meaningless, his death serves as no more than the stamp on the letter that I am sending to you. This is my design.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is none of the rage that he expects to feel from an escalating violent offender. Every action feels measured, deliberate. It’s almost petty in its deliverance, the aggression tempered and refined rather than explosive and uncontrolled.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I pluck out his eyes so you know that you are watched. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>This is performative.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I paint this picture so that you might observe, and know that you are in the company of masters.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The mess sits neatly on top of the blood pool of the victim’s feet, so the robbery was secondary. Will grapples around in the dark for the frenzy of a man, high on the kill, but he feels no fires. Only the calm surface of a lake, so familiar.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You are infringing on what is mine, so I have taken what is yours. This is my des-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Will surfaces with a gasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t the same killer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack looks at him, “How do you know? You haven’t even seen the other crime scenes-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will dismisses him with a wave of his hand, teeth clenched to the point of pain, “What was taken?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pause, “We don’t know yet. We’re waiting on the vic’s brother to do inventory. But the place has been torn apart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t a ransacking, Jack,” he says, indicating the surrounding room. A smashed lamp beside the sofa. Books pulled from the shelves, discarded on the floor. Drawers open, contents strewn across every surface. Glittering baubles, uncovered treasures. Chaos painted with a singularly talented hand; the sweep of a brush dipped in red ink, not to be mistaken for arterial spray.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s set dressing. This isn’t a home invasion, this is a message to someone who wanted to commit a home invasion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack seems to mull over the words, jaw working beneath the skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this our home invader?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a painting on the far wall of the living room, an early modern landscape, purple flowers and a farmhouse; it’s incongruous with the decor of the rest of the room, with modern lines and matte metal. It's worth is less about aesthetics, and more about a display of wealth. Will doesn’t have Hannibal’s eye for art, but he’d bet it’s an original, and expensive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t the home of a guy who started life off robbing people,” he says, shaking his head, “This is a potential victim of your guy. This is…” He trails off, the words sitting heavily in his throat. Jack might lean on him for anything and everything, but it’s not out of necessity, and he’ll come to the same conclusion Will did before the autopsy is finished. “This is someone marking their territory.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like a bull in front of a reg flag, Jack’s eyes widen, “Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are there any incisions on the body?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zeller has been lingering at the edge of their conversation, apparently unwilling to get in between them, but he ducks forward and unbuttons the victim’s shirt. Jack and Will continue to stare at each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bisection of the lower abdomen, but he’s been stitched up,” Zeller reports, “There’s something in the wound.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trace?” Jack asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I mean, he’s stuffed something in the wound. It feels- Christ, it feels like metal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the ghost of a headache flitting at the edges of his consciousness, a long day ahead of him and an even longer night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll be the same valuables the perp takes from the other scenes. Minus a liver, or a kidney.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is probably one of his quickest IDs to date, even if he’s got something of a cheatsheet on the subject. Less than four minutes, going by his watch. Jack’s face belies his own suspicions, the all too familiar dread and fury falling over his features, the same one that Will has come to know intimately well. The one he’s supposed to know to avoid, to plan ahead for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this the Ripper?” he demands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zeller, looking increasingly like he wants to turn tail and flee the room, says, “The incision is consistent with Ripper kills, and the stitches are medical standard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You couldn’t even pretend to be someone else. God forbid you not hammer the message in with a sledgehammer</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Will thinks bitterly. There might be something very wrong with him, if the alternative could even be debated anymore. His partner has torn a man in half and staged him for the sheer and simple pleasure of depriving another man of doing it, and Will is furious, because it will inevitably rob him of quiet evenings for the next three weeks as he’s run ragged into the ground, playing dutiful detective and running interference, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(If he’s honest with himself, being on the outside of Hannibal’s violence feels like he’s the victim of a robbery himself. He feels bereft, and isn’t that just the nail in the coffin of the man he once was, if the poor bastard wasn’t already six foot under.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The case files from the other scenes confirm his suspicions; there’s nothing calculated in the attacks, just a mindless taste for violence being driven by opportunity. A killer coming into his own, for certain. Will notes that the value of what was taken each time decreases, so either his drive is diverging from material to pathological, or he’s losing the interest in covering his tracks with petty theft. Either way, the attacks are not likely to stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The consumption of wealth, worthlessly.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The items in the intestinal cavity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal glances at the clock - a little after five in the evening. Just over thirteen hours since Will left the house, two cups of coffee in his hands, eyes still half-lidded with sleep. Under normal circumstances, he might have been irate with Jack for the early morning call, but he’s capable of reasonable thought. The blame for this rests squarely on his own shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will is liable to drop it there regardless, the same way a dog drops roadkill at its master's feet. Covered in blood and rotten. Distasteful and completely useless, but it would be unfair to hold it against him - where else would he bring it? He’s been well trained to sniff out culpability, even if his loyalty is to a different man now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Half a lifetime in law enforcement, but even before that; the world isn’t kind to men like Will, and it’s easier to make them targets. Too smart where education has failed his peers, softer in the face and voice than those who have a limited understanding of the broad strokes of masculinity can consolidate. Hannibal doesn’t dwell on the man Will Graham was before, out of respect for the man’s wishes, but he would like nothing more than to be able to appreciate the full scope of his change, his evolution, his transition. To see who he was before necessity made a survivor of him, with a predator's teeth.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carl Sandover was a distasteful and useless man, a canvas of convenience, who will in all likelihood not be mourned by anyone. Separated from his spouse, alienated from his children, and no friends to speak of, just an address book full of colleagues who detest him. (It’s not murder, it’s public service.) But Will will mourn, Will will likely rage in the singular way that only he can, the wrath of a man who feels too much and in no small measures. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a consequence he can endure. Like ripping gauze from an open wound, some things must be taken to with precipitousness, for the betterment of all. Hannibal can wait, he has patience for the ages, but all things have their time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He adds the thyme, marjoram and sage to the stew, rich and aromatic where it bubbles slowly on the hob. It’ll be a few more hours, but likely so will Will, if he arrives at all tonight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Relationships - true relationships, rather than affairs - have been somewhat elusive to him for most of his life. His youth is peppered with experimentation with several genders; glittering and sharp-witted women that he learns quickly hold little interest, well-read men that rarely linger, people who occupy neither label that he shares kinship with but little else. He finds all their demands, be it time or affection, understanding or validation, to be petty, and below him. Trivial matters for trivial people. By the time he is comfortably post transition, he is set to leave for America, and he feels the ocean between his homeland and his new life between himself and his new peers. Hannibal is nothing if not self-reliant, and compromise is not in his nature.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will is, as in all things, an exception to the rule. Compromise is a necessary evil, borne of a hitherto unknown desire to genuinely please someone. Will’s elation, his joy, his pleasure, is intoxicating, and Hannibal pursues it with the single mindedness that he allows for a few select things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will compromises, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>“I saw the Chesapeake Ripper is active again,” Bedelia says, a little under two years ago. She sips from her wine nonchalantly, and Hannibal hums, “How is Will coping? Exposure to this kind of violence must take its toll on him.” It’s the closest she’ll get to speaking outright of what she knows of his true nature, half truths and implications. She doesn’t ask because she cares about Will - she never has - but because she cannot resist the temptation to needle him about it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>A hole in your person suit, cut to his size</span>
  <em>
    <span>, she calls it. He might still take her tongue, make something sweet, so it might finally be free from her bitterness.</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal watched him eat from his table the fruits of his labour, even as Will choked on his resentment for it. But what they had was raw and new, something of a first for them both - a relationship, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>partnership</span>
  </em>
  <span>, with all the honesty and sacrifice that it demands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>“Why haven’t you killed anyone for so long?” Abigail asks him. He has always adored her bluntness, smart as she is not to wield it like a dagger to manipulate him. “Because I haven’t found anyone I want to kill,” he answers easily, looking out over the Ohio River. That’s two people he owes honestly, even if the shades of it are different.</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time is something he is privileged to have mounds of, and the patience to navigate it. But, ultimately, all predators will come out of hibernation when nature demands it. They need to eat, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal is somewhat surprised when Will walks back through the door, looking haggard and tired and irritable. The scent of disinfectant follows him, and a distant air of resentment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t sure whether to expect you tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will glances at him, expression blank but his mood clearly legible for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was my absence the goal? I can leave, if you prefer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re always welcome here,” he responds truthfully, “Are you hungry?” Conflict plays over his face, but he nods. “It’ll only take a few moments, make yourself comfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will looks like he’s tempted to roll his eyes when Hannibal sets the bowl in front of him, the chilli, paprika and cumin following him through from the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anticipating a fight tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Long, cold days call for comfort food, don’t you think? In your case, this is anything spicy enough to label you a masochist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s gumbo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a heavily seasoned meat stew,” Hannibal corrects, taking a seat, “Whether or not it earns the title of gumbo is your choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He never complains about the food, regardless of what it is, regardless of the pretensions of the meal. Will would happily eat plain American cheese sandwiches on processed bread for three meals a day if his body allowed it, and notwithstanding a few sensory allowances, he’d be similarly content to eat whatever Hannibal prepared for him. But, over the years, Hannibal has learned where to gently lean into Will’s preference for familiar foods and well practiced rituals, and where to avoid experimentations and surprises. Tonight is not a night for surprises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They eat in silence that might be mistaken for companionable by an uninformed outsider, but they both recognise the quiet wait before the snake strikes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Imagine my surprise when Jack called me out to a home invasion case this morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It must have been quite the shock. What did you tell him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That we don’t usually deal with robberies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rightly so. There are more pressing cases for the FBI to work on, I’m sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t usually deal with robberies either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I find myself unconcerned with robbery,” he says, “Human nature is to covet what others possess. The robber, however, is of my concern.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will takes a mouthful of stew, as carefully considered as his comments. Hannibal is in the business of prising answers from the unwilling, but he rarely has to dig in Will’s brain these days. His measured reaction is at odds with expectation, and it is an unsettling result.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One must be careful to keep up appearances. Reputations are hard earned, and easily tarnished,” he presses after a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems amused, “Your reputation with who? The FBI? Or, is there some local serial killer club monthly meeting I’m not privy to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s rare that I find the darkest sides of people anything of note, and certainly not enough to dance for their entertainment. You’re quite alone in that club.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” he smiles, but it’s tainted with something not quite genuine at the edges, “This was for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you must have opinions on it, Will,” Hannibal finds himself getting frustrated with the carefully curated exchange, so used to Will’s anvilicious approach to most of these conversations, “Better to save us both the time and speak honestly.” Apparently, it is a step too far for Will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not some trainee wandering unwittingly into your office,” he snaps, fury rising to the surface in a single moment, although he takes the time to place his cutlery down gently on the plate. It’s an amusing incongruity. “You can’t play these games with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You speak as if I have attempted to deceive you. I have never pretended to be anything less than what I am with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What you are is the reason that I am here with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>are is the reason you are here with me,” Hannibal replies coolly, “Do not pretend to be some abused spouse, trapped by fear. We both know better. Our foundation is built on more than your appreciation for my craft, because it is yours, as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will snarls, like an animal caught in a trap, “Don’t talk to me about our foundation. This has nothing to do with us, this is you. Your drive, your obsession, </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>compulsion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How cruel you must find me to see me like this. You act as if I have misled you in some way, so, in the spirit of honesty, why don’t you speak truthfully? You’ve returned to eat at my table, so you cannot possibly find fault in the product of my design. I assume it’s the execution you take issue with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want me to use my words, Doctor Lecter?” Will sneers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal observes the tight shape of his shoulders, the lines of his eyes that track the path from  the nearest exit to the knives on the table between them. So much of his existence is built from the bricks of repression - every step, Will searches for another excuse, another justification, to be half the man he is capable of being. How Hannibal delights in dismantling those walls, bricks and mortar both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blade is sharp against his palm as he holds it out, hilt towards Will. A dinner knife is hardly his preferred weapon, but needs must. The scalpel is his alone, and he is rarely inclined to share, “You wield a knife better, and I know you find it easier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are insatiable in your appetite for drama.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hardly your primary concern tonight, is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will scoffs, taking the proffered knife and slamming it on the table, “My primary concern is that you left a crime scene, gift wrapped, ten minutes from your house. You gutted him and left me to clear up your mess without so much as a warning. Sloppy, Hannibal. Very sloppy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I a suspect?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you have played your part perfectly. So well, one might wonder what your complaint is. I never doubted your ability to improvise, Will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck improvising, Hannibal,” he snaps, snatching a hold of his wrist as he reaches for his fork again. Hannibal glances at him, sees the scolding light behind the blue of his eyes, and feels it burn even more than the iron grip on his radius and ulna, “I want the damn script.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like a dislocation that snaps back into place, understanding bleeds into the hollows of their conversation. It’s white hot, and sweet, and realisation dawns across Will’s face at the sametime it does Hannibal’s. He never meant to show all his cards, but he might as well have called all in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had presumed to keep you at a distance until you indicated clearly your preference otherwise,” he says softly, watching Will chew furiously, not meeting his eye, “It was never my intention to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have any idea how much trust you ask us to put in you?” he interrupts, and Hannibal’s jaw snaps shut in irritation, but he holds his tongue. Better not to tempt Will’s temper tonight. “Do you have any idea how reckless this pathological need to prove you’re smarter, to prove you’re better, to have the last laugh is?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think happens to Abigail and I if you get caught? I’ll be </span>
  <em>
    <span>lucky </span>
  </em>
  <span>if they settle for accessory to first degree murder and obstruction of justice, and when we’re both sat in prison, do you think the FBI are going to simply back off and leave Abigail alone? All because you were struck by artistic vision like an art student with his first joint.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All things considered and accounted for, ultimately. A singular phone call would set the dominos falling, a series of events that would safeguard them both, Abigail in particular. Will, he knows and trusts to navigate the worst of the justice system, but Ohio isn’t a short journey when on the run and he’s not accustomed to leaving things to chance. No one on the planet knows him better, and he suspects that Will, rationally, knows all these things. Will’s anger is rarely a rational thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly and carefully, he moves from his chair to kneel on the ground beside Will, who watches him with a blank expression but hands that hover near anything that he might wield as a weapon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have miscalculated,” he admits. Will’s face falters for half a second in surprise, but he quickly reasserts it. “I sought to give you the necessary space to come to realisations of your true nature, free of as much of my influence as I could save you. You’re more than a product of my proximity, you are your own creature. But I have neglected the man you are now in favour of the one you will grow to be, and that is abundantly cruel of me. I apologise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My true nature,” Will repeats, eyes cast downwards, “You mean that I’m like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one is like me. No one is like you. We are each our own man, we just understand each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want me to kill with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Hannibal thinks wildly, though he goes to great measures to keep his countenance calm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Let me see the sum of all your cruelties and your fury, a beast of unrivalled destruction shed it’s collar of propriety. Let evolution reap what it has sewed into the core of you. Let lesser men know their place at your feet. Let me lick the blood off your teeth.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe it is a solution to our problem,” he hedges carefully, resting his palms on Will’s thighs, “You are struggling with the separation of who we are perceived to be, and who we really are, because you cannot control either, and so you fear the moment they start to bleed into each other. This offers a modicum of rule over both, and security that they remain separate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will smiles wryly, “Completely selfless on your part, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never pretended to be anything but extremely selfish with your time, your attention, or your mind,” he says softly, and it tempts another smile from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I accept your apology, you can get off the floor now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m still mad,” he adds, turning back to his plate. Hannibal smiles indulgently, climbing back into his chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t think you would let me off that easily, no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will returns to his food but Hannibal can tell his mind is elsewhere, gaze lingering somewhere in the middle ground. He’s preoccupied, which isn’t in itself unusual, but Hannibal finds himself unusually eager to return to their conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, what are we to do with Mister Richetto?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a weighted pause, and Hannibal almost regrets his flippancy, whatever calm he had previously fostered shattered like glass upon the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know his name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, he’s a young man, formerly employed by the Walker Street Gallery of Fine Art. I believe he was let go a few weeks ago, although I couldn’t estimate as to why,” he nods, taking a measured bite of the sausage. Will’s gaze is a palpable thing on the side of his head, “I only came to be aware of his predilections quite by chance. I always suspected he suffered from some form of psychosis, but he held a steady job at the gallery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An unstable person in a stable environment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He had a fair shot at a normal life. There were signs, nothing worth noting at the time, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you think he’s the killer here, why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His absence from the gallery coincides quite neatly with the start of the home invasions, and a sudden loss of income would certainly be a reasonable motivator for someone suffering from instability to start robbing people’s houses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will sighs deeply, taking a thoughtful bite of his food. Hannibal watches him out of the corner of his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, circumstantial, then? He’s just a guy, who might have psychosis, and might be robbing houses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will’s glass stops half way to his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw </span>
  </em>
  <span>him robbing a house?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw him casing a house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whose?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carl Sandover’s.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How beautiful Will looks in his rage. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That will likely be the thing that kills you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Hannibal thinks to himself, quite at peace with the concept. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he see you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Possibly,” he hums, “We can’t draw conclusions, of course. It’s possibly he won’t make the connection, even if he could have identified me. I had my own reasons for dispatching Mr Sandover, after all, the man had no shortage of enemies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to kill him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In all likelihood, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And, what?” Will asks, tone caught somewhere between disbelief and irritation, “I’m just supposed to sit here and watch you wreak carnage, just to cover up the last time someone tested your sense of divine retribution?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I’d be thrilled for you to watch,” Hannibal says easily, “and your participation is always welcome.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A brilliant red spreads across Will’s neck and cheeks, and he scoffs indelicately to cover whatever emotion is plaguing him in such vivid technicolour, pressing at all the sensitive parts of his brain that light up so prettily, especially when he thinks they shouldn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(So concerned with correctness, even now. Everything about Will is pretty, even his cruelty.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we still talking about murder?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal hums, “We’re both well read and educated men, Will. I’m sure we can navigate two different lines of conversation at once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Different lines of conversations</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a fancy way of saying innuendo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m happy to discuss semantics with you, Will, but I have to wonder if you’re attempting to distract me from one of the two more sensitive topics. The question is, which one is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t help yourself, can you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal reaches out to where Will’s hand is resting on the table between them, pressing two fingers to the thin skin of his wrist to feel his pulse, and the delicate metatarsals with his thumb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I try not to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will stares at their hands, “You know it’s not that easy, right? I’m not a high school girlfriend you can flirt with and flatter and make me forget how close you are coming to ruining everything again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would it reassure you for me to tell you my affection serves no greater agenda than to have you feel it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Honesty tends to burst from Will like gunfire, and he often regrets it as such, “Pathetic, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hardly. Authenticity of emotion is the backbone to a healthy relationship.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will’s gaze drops to the table, and Hannibal raises his hand to his face, presses a kiss to the palm. Will’s thumb smooths over his cheekbone, and even though it feels like benediction, there’s a promise of violence in the twitches of his fingers. Retribution and reprieve dolled out in equal measures, and Hannibal, hungry for whatever he might feast on.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. pure morning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will and Hannibal lie in.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, this chapter is technically early, yes, but in the next couple of weeks, I have most of my university exams and deadlines. It's only a short chapter, so I thought I might as well drop it now, and the slightly longer chapter five will be posted in two weeks.</p><p>Content warning for mild, implied sex, as well as mentions of gender affirming surgery scars.</p><p>Chapter title from Pure Morning by Placebo, which is also the premise of the chapter, and maybe in my top 5 most romantic horny songs every written.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Our thoughts compressed,<br/>
Which makes us blessed,<br/>
And makes for stormy weather.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Light streams in, painting white lines in the dust that lingers. Will’s house is full of it, no matter how many times Hannibal attempts to discreetly wipe the surfaces and sweep the floors. The kitchen is, blissfully, mostly free of the natural build up of fur and dander that goes hand in hand with living with seven dogs - even Will cannot abate dog hair in his food - but the rest of his home is lost to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is compromise, he believes. For all that he finds it unclean, sticking to his clothes and irritating his respiratory system, he knows Will is and has always felt equally out of place in his own home, where he feels he might leave handprints on immaculate surfaces, like smears on museum glass. As time has passed, he’s grown less self-conscious of the differences in their homes, and his discomfiture lies more in a certain perplexion about the pretensions Hannibal maintains, rather than outright unease. Still, he makes the same hour drive that Hannibal does, keeps his scathing comments about the salad forks and antique rugs to a minimum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This bed, however, will have to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m buying you a new bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” comes the sleepy, muffled reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal smiles. Will is at his easiest to manipulate in the early morning, loose-limbed and sleep-warm. He’s got away with murder - figuratively - by pressing for answers in the pale early morning sun, so much so that he sometimes wonders how much time they could have saved if Hannibal had simply confessed to him at 5am, pressed against his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(His lover’s face is resting near a scar on Hannibal’s bicep that might not be there if he’d tried such a tactic. Will has many strange habits, but he doesn’t keep hunting knives under his pillow.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sleigh style, perhaps, he considers. Will would never agree to a four-poster, and a sleigh bed would suit the aesthetic of his home. Or a wrought iron frame under a thick mattress and a down duvet; the upstairs surely drops below freezing in the winter, and the only heating in Will’s home is the fire in the living room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s an easy goal, a series of simple tasks with a singular objective. They are both tentatively settling back into each other’s grasp after Hannibal’s not insignificant lapse of judgement with Carl Sandover, nor Will’s conflict over it. His lover is not so easily distracted, of course, but he will recognize the gesture for what it is - something simple and uncomplicated, an olive branch. An excuse for Hannibal to spend more nights in Wolf Trap, among the trees and wild things, where they can both have an equal hand in creating something. Will has always enjoyed Hannibal’s symbols and gestures, and his mind makes associations quickly. Spurred on by the prospect, Hannibal stretches, and sits up. A hand grabs blindly at his hip from the nest of blankets as soon as he moves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What time is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little after seven.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will groans, “Why are you getting up? Get back into bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had thought about making breakfast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No thinking before eight, that’s one of the rules.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal sinks a little further down into the bed, prises Will’s hand from his side and kisses the palm gently, “What rules are they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My rules,” he muttered, burrowing closer to Hannibal, “house rules.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I’m renovating your bedroom, I would like a fair and democratic voice in the structure of these rules.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a long pause before Will blearily raises his head from the pillows, eye blinking slowly and voice like dragging weight over gravel, “You’re doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>to my bedroom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Renovating, like we discussed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Hannibal makes a point of not lying to Will these days - they both have too much on the line for anything else - but omission and exaggeration provide a sometimes necessary grey area within which he sits quite comfortably.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t even use my bedroom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rightly so. I suspect anyone who did would rapidly develop lung disease from the damp and the dust.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will glares at him from beneath his curls, before tucking a yawn into Hannibal’s side. His jaw cracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s nothing wrong with my bed here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A blatant lie,” Hannibal smiles indulgently, “I commend you on your ability to withstand chronic back pain on a mattress that feels as if it hasn’t been so much as flipped in ten years, but if you won’t allow me to find us a suitable home to share, you have to at least let me improve our sleeping arrangements here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bleary eyes blink at him a few times, “Are you seriously holding my bedroom hostage so I’ll let you buy us a house?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I thought that all it would take for you to invest in caring for yourself properly was committing a felony, then I would have done so years ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Murder is a felony,” Will says with a raised brow. Hannibal hums in agreement</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cannibalism is not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cannibalism is incidental, the act of killing is the driving factor,” counters Will, even as Hannibal presses him gently back down onto the bed, and noses gently at the line of his jaw, “Taking a life is an expression of power, eating them is just a convenient continuation of that power, a by-product of environmental stimuli. That’s why you’ve never sought out consensual victims to butcher and consume.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s an extremely crass and diminutive exploration of his pathology, which he rather suspects is the point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to the moratorium on psychoanalysis in bed?” he mutters, trailing kisses across the line of Will’s clavicle, “I assumed that was in the rules, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will laughs, “Not so fun from that side of the desk, huh, doctor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a brat,” Hannibal says, punctuating it with a sharp bite to Will’s left pectoral muscle. It’s not enough to break the skin, but it’ll bruise well. He stills soothes it with a press of his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or, maybe,” Will continues, voice admirably steady, even as his breath comes a little quicker, “you just have an oral fixation, and you’ve never done anything in half measures.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither of them can resist the urge to poke bruises, to dig their fingers into the wound and rip. Pain, pleasure. It’s all just sensation, lighting up the nervous system. Will knows Hannibal’s like he knows the backroads of Virginia, or the boatyards of Biloxi. A master with a map, he never needs to ask directions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ever the fisherman, Will, casting bait like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hardly need to,” he says around a grin, all teeth, “You bite plenty of your own accord.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels the corners of his mouth turn up, hook, line and sinker, “So, which are you in this analogy? The fisherman, the rod or the lure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The deer, at the wrong end of a shotgun,” The words are wry, but the expression on his face is fond, “Not three minutes ago, you were threatening me with a new bed and now you’re flirting. Very cheap attempt at distraction, Doctor Lecter. Very poor psychiatry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The quality depends on the outcome, I would say,” he returns, eyebrow raised, “So, tell me, how would you say that you feel about my plans for your upstairs, now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will takes a moment to smirk, tips his head and stretches beneath him. Sighs. It’s a cheap distraction in return, but Hannibal isn’t so proud to say he doesn’t appreciate his efforts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d say that I’m open to suggestion, if you were in a mood to convince me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal thinks he could dedicate hours, days at a time, to tempting Will to all manner of things. He’s swayed easier these days, less shackled, if not wholly free, from the knee-jerk reaction of primary socialization, morality, responsibility. New cities, new countries - a home in every one that takes their fancy. The careful construction and maintenance of sanctuary has been the cornerstone of both of their identities for most of their adult lives, if represented on very different ends of the spectrum. How delightful to bring their twin philosophies together, give life to ideology and carve out something just for them. How wonderful to drag Will to acquiescence with the sharp knife edge of pleasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal mouths at the dip in his sternum, matching scars either side of his chest livid on his skin in the morning light. He’d personally undertaken the strictest post-op regime he could to fade his own surgery scars; on his own body, they felt like blemishes on a finished sketch, a mistake not fully erased. Will took no such precautions, after his mastectomy or hysterectomy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>“Proof of my Becoming,” Will mutters when Hannibal asks about them, from where his back is pressed against the wall of Hannibal’s study, shirt undone and eyes glistening. It’s early days for them, and desire finds its place beside fury and resentment, just as likely to snap their teeth or throw a punch as they are to kiss. This, though, is sacred ground, where they are of truly equal footing and no messy negotiations need to take place. Hannibal runs his thumbs across the red scar tissue on Will’s chest and his tongue along his jaw.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Tangible evidence of the value to be found in the journey, not just the destination,” he murmurs in his ear.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“There’s something poetic about the proof I walked that path,” Will hums contentedly, head falling back against the wall, hips rolling, “My body is mine because I fought for it. That is </span>
  </em>
  <span>my </span>
  <em>
    <span>design.”</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will sees the whole world in terms of strategy and warfare. He’s battle hardened and quick to the draw - everything’s a fight to him, even what he’s already won, even what calls for no conflict. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Settle down,” he chides gently, biting quickly at the thin skin over his ribs as he continues to writhe under Hannibal’s grip. Will whines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then stop teasing,” he huffs, “What are you even doing down there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Contemplating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will rolls his eyes, “Contemplating what, the weather?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Digging his nails into Will’s side, drawing pale red lines down his flanks, he admires the muscles that tighten in his torso as he arches off the bed with a hiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your true nature. How beautiful you look stripped of some polite visage to be what you were always meant to be. Loyal, vicious, victorious. The perfect soldier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His blue eyes are hooded as he looks down at him, mouth open and wet and so inviting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I’m a soldier, what does that make you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal considers the sheer breadth of his victories - not fought till a winner was crowned, but till annihilation. The total destruction of everything inferior to him, and the elevation of everything held dear to him. Will sucks in a breath as Hannibal scrapes his teeth against the skin of his stomach before answering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A conqueror.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs breathlessly, dragging Hannibal up the length of his body by the back of his neck and kissing him viciously. They’re both panting by the end, and Hannibal cannot help but wonder at how easily they arrive at this point after quiet discussions about interior decorations. Perhaps they never leave this place, balancing on the precipice of violence and affection, always ready to share a mouthful of both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re unbelievable,” Will breathes, and bites at Hannibal’s bottom lip, “A fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>conqueror</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I swear, your ego-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s rather suiting-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, shut up,” he groans, arching up against him, “Stop talking, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>conquer</span>
  </em>
  <span> me already-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal sits back on his heels and maneuvers a laughing Will onto his stomach, the sound of his amusement tapering off into a gasping breath when Hannibal ducks down and runs his tongue from the center of his back to the nape of his neck, bringing his mouth to the shell of his ear. He can feel the shudder of Will’s body as he presses on top of him, flesh made warm and pliant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Brat</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will showers first, while Hannibal makes a pot of coffee and a late breakfast. There’s some fresh fruit in the fridge that he cuts into squares, poaches some eggs and toasts some of the thick cut soughbour on the side from last night’s dinner. He feeds the dogs, too, who watch him in the kitchen with solemn eyes until he puts their bowls down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been an unexpectedly pleasant morning, even as noon fast approaches. It’s a rare and wonderful thing to waste hours in the company of a sharp mind and eager body alone. Despite how people might assume he feels about Will’s house, it’s isolation suits them both well. Hannibal Lecter, psychiatrist and socialite, is a sociable creature, with a door often open to friends and peers. Will Graham is known to be antisocial at best, outright antagonistic at worst. The privacy afforded to them both here is a precious commodity, and it suits Hannibal, selfish and hedonistic creature that he is. He’s as disinclined to share his own time as he is dole out Will’s, when the alternative is mornings like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Hannibal gets out of the shower, he finds Will already back in bed, breakfast balanced on his lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could have at least changed the sheets first,” he adminishes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will blinks at him, “I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal looks again, and the sheets do in fact appear to be fresh, just the exact same plain grey as before, “Do you own two sets of identical bed clothes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Three,” he shrugs, “I like the way they feel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a mental note to keep that in mind, before sliding into bed next to him with a cup of coffee and his tablet. Will, even more amicable with coffee than he is before properly awakening, offers a minimal of criticising commentary as Hannibal searches for furniture online, arm around his lover’s shoulders, fingers pressing gently into the bite mark on his chest.</span>
</p>
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